End Of Daylight
by Loopylou
Summary: A string of murders across the city lead Angela to believe that a deamon is on a killing spree. Will become John HC at the end.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N. **Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this fic! The saying below is in Italian, not Latin because I couldn't find anyone to translate it for me. Again, I don't own the characters and no monies are being made from their use.

End Of Daylight 

_L'inverno ha cominciato. Per la fine, saprete di me. E temilo. E mi diletterò._

Prologue

Angela crashed into the thick wooden door with enough force to make her shoulder ache for days after. Something was desperately wrong inside of the apartment- she could _feel _it. The door was locked and held solid even as she threw her weight into it again. Cursing, she yanked the gun out of her holster and fired at the lock. The gunshot was deafening, but when she leaned against the door it swung open. There would be hell to pay for firing her weapon like that, but she didn't care. A man could be dying.

Her partner appeared behind her, having caught up with her headlong sprint into the building. She entered the apartment first, gun up and pointing at the ceiling. It's smooth weight reassured her, even as her mind replayed his dry warning that it couldn't protect her. She navigates the kitchen with care. There is blood dried thick and black on the floor. The smell of it hangs heavily in the air. She keeps her mouth tightly closed, worried that she would taste the blood if she opened it. She tries to walk in a straight line, to preserve any evidence, but it's hard. She has to step over too many spots of blood to stick to a straight line.

The kitchen gives way to the living room. There is blood here too, splattered up the walls in crimson dots. She rounds the sofa and sees him laying on the floor. Falling to her knees next to the body, she already knows that nothing can be done for him. He has that final heaviness that only death brings, but she still forces her finger to his neck. There is no pulse, and the skin is cooling quickly. His eyes are open, staring forever in horror at what ever had attacked him. She brushes a hand over them, trying to close them, but they stay fixed open.

The savageness of the attack took her breath away. He has been brutalised in ways she could never have imagined in her worst nightmares. Torn open in places, the blood has been used to write messages on the walls. She shivers as she sees them. She has seen some things in her time on the force, but nothing like the body laid out in front of her. Silently, she blessed him, wondering if it would do any good. Would he go to heaven or hell, she wonders.

She stood, not noticing that her hands and knees were covered in blood and leaves the apartment in a daze. This is the worst one yet. Her partner lays a hand on her shoulder but doesn't say a word. He understands that she needs time to process what she has seen. Later, he'll find her and offer comfort, but not yet. It wouldn't do any good.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

Angrily, she paced the length of John's apartment. She'd changed into a worn pair of jeans and scrubbed her hands, but she could still feel the blood on her body. He was sitting, watching her pace. Those haunting eyes followed her, but apart from that he hardly moved. It was infuriating that he could be so calm when she was so upset. Rationally, she knew that he was not the one in the wrong, but her emotions were having a hart time keeping up with her rational mind.

"Angela, it wasn't a half-breed attack. The can't do something like that. It was purely human evil." He sounds bored- they've been having this argument for well over an hour now and he can't find a way to make her believe him.

"You didn't see the body." Her voice is a notch below pure venom. She could feel that this is not a human attack. Her body had been soaked with the very _wrongness _of it while she had knelt over the body. Why wouldn't he believe her? If only he'd been there, in that room with the body, he would have known like she did.

"The pictures did a pretty good job of showing it." He said dryly. "The writing on the wall doesn't mean anything. It's just a couple of Latin words."

She holds in a sigh, when really, she wants to slap him. "What did they say?"

He flicked through the pictures, finally finding the one he needs and studies it. "Has begun." A shrug, "That's all it says."

She used to read Latin at school, but had let it lapse. She hadn't even recognised the scrawling test _as _Latin. It was embarrassing, and her cheeks flushed just a little. Those perceptive eyes took it in, but he chose not to comment.

"Has begun? What could that mean?" She questioned. He wished that he could help her, but he was as stumped as she was. The phrase meant nothing to him on it's own. He'd never come across the phrase used in conjunction with any of the half-breeds he'd deported over the years.

Her cell phone chirped and she answered it with a frustrated "Yes?" A frown creased her face as she listened to the information being passed on to her. She gestured for a pen and paper. He slid both across the table to her, getting up to stand next to her so that he could see what she was writing. She glared at him, but couldn't stop him from reading. She ended the call with a brief thanks. Before she could speak, he voiced her most pressing worry.

"He was a Priest." His voice sounded a little hollow. He hoped that she didn't notice.

"Yes. Father John Coventry, age 64. He retired due to health reasons." He'd tried to hide it, but she had seen his expression change at the similarity in names.

He saw her looking and frowned. "What? It's just a coincidence. Millions of people have the same initials as me."

_But_, she thought, _they weren't all being torn to pieces in the middle of the day in their own home, where they?_

He fingered the medallions that he always carried with him. The cold, smooth surfaces reassured him. He touched each one, mentally naming the saint that the represented. The exercise was calming and he felt the little knot of tension inside of him relax. An idea is forming inside of his mind. He doesn't like it one bit.

"Okay, so what now?" She asks. He gives her a look that says, 'hey, _you're _the cop, but doesn't speak. He was thinking, the wheels turning in his head. Something had sparked a memory, but he couldn't place it. It would come to him, he knew, trying not to dwell on it.

"Has there been any more murders like this?" He asked slowly.

"We had one like it a few weeks ago. A homeless guy was found in the subway, pretty torn up. No-one could make any sense of it though." She frowned, thinking "It was written off as an unsolved. You think they're related?"

"Sounds that way to me. Was there any writing?" He questioned.

"No, I don't think there was. There was something weird though, he had a sprig of mistletoe in his hand."

"Mistletoe has been used for hundreds of years at the Winter Solstice." It was a fairly random fact, and he couldn't connect it with the other killing. She was clearly as puzzled as he was and he decided to call it a night. They wouldn't find anything by turning over the same facts endlessly. A fresh eye in the morning would be more use.

He stood, stretching the kinks out of his body. She watched him suspiciously, but all he was doing was putting a pot of coffee on to brew. Stepping around her, he took down two cups and added milk to them. The coffee didn't take long until it was ready, and he added it to the cups. Lifting both of them he led the way into his living room.

"Grab the cookies, please?" He asked over his shoulder as he left the kitchen. She loved oatmeal cookies- he'd never really liked sweet food, but was learning to enjoy it under her expert teaching.

The living room was a room he hardly used, because it was too large for one person. A huge sofa and slightly mismatched chair filled one corner of them room, but the rest of it was empty. He didn't feel the need to furnish a room he didn't use. She took the chair, sitting down with a sigh. It was extremely comfortable. The leather creaked a little as she accepted the coffee from John. There was a small table in between the sofa and chair, and he nudged it closer to her with his foot. She set the cookies onto it, taking two off the plate for herself. She bit into one, laying the other on the arm of the chair.

"This is nice." She mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.

He glanced round the room with unseeing eyes. He didn't need to see it- he'd lived with it all of his life. He knew every mark on the furniture. "It was my mother's." His voice was purposefully flat.

"You miss her?" It was an easy question to ask, but maybe not the right one.

He gave a bitter laugh "Oh, she's not dead. She's living in the south of France with a second husband half her age." He flashed her a humourless smile "Sends me cards once in a while." He shrugged and sipped his cooling coffee. She got the impression that her apparent desertion had hurt him deeply.

Her cell phone rang again, startling them both a little. She slopped coffee on her hand as she jumped. He took the cup from her and she dug in her pocket for her phone. Flipping it open, she answered the call with a curt "Yes?" She had a strong feeling that this would not be good news.

The sinking feeling in her stomach must have shown on her face as she listened, because his questioning eyes met and held hers.

After a few minutes, she ended the call. Her mouth was dry as she spoke "Another one."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2 

The apartment was like so many others in the city, old, elegant and a little worn around the edges. That softness made what they were looking so much worse. The body was spread-eagled on the bed, the sheets and blankets soaking up most of the blood. Angela found his face to be the worst part- his eyes held such horror that she felt her gut clench if she caught sight of them. Part of her mind couldn't help but wonder about his last minutes. The room still held an echo of the travesty that had taken place within it. She could feel goose bumps rising on her skin.

Beneath the damage, he looked to be in good physical shape, the muscles on his arms and torso looking trim and toned. She thought that he had dark hair, but the blood gave it a red tint. His eyes were green and in life he would have been handsome. There was a wedding band on his finger and she felt a rush of sorrow for the family that he had been so forcibly stolen from. She guessed his age at around 35, but wasn't sure how accurate it was.

Turning her mind to work helped, she found. Ignoring the techs who were still working the scene, she examined the room, noting the writing on the wall. She'd ask John what it meant later. The large picture window was cracked across a bottom corner. She went and crouched near to it, hoping to find something useful. A strange smear of green goo caught her attention, and she automatically reached out to touch it, not noticing that the wall around it was slightly scorched.

"Don't!" John's voice was urgent, but not loud. He was standing behind her, studying the liquid he knew to be blood.

She drew her hand back, instead pulling out a wooden tongue depressor. She scraped a little of the blood off the wall. The wood began to give off white smoke. Within seconds, the end had burned right through. She looked at him with a weak half smile of thanks. He offered her an hand and pulled her easily to her feet.

"The attacker got hurt?" She asks quietly.

"Looks that way to me." He agrees, then adds, "I was wrong." She'd never know how hard it was for him to say that. "This isn't a human killing people."

"A half-breed?" She asked apprehensively, already drawing her own conclusions.

A small, but ironic smile coloured his face, "No, worse. This is a pure demon."

"But why kill people?" She sounded like a two year old talking about the closet monster, scared and a little petulant.

He shrugged, "Sport?" He offered, knowing that he was being flip. She knew it too, and for a moment, her eyes seemed to glow with anger. He almost took a step back, catching himself at the last minute. "I'm sorry. I don't know. It depends on the demon. I'll look it up at the apartment."

"Detective?" One of the white suited techs called. She held up a blood stained wallet. On Angela's nod, she flipped through it, coming up with a driving licence.

"The victim was called James Cregan." The tech said, not knowing that she was sparking a panic in both of them. He hid his better than she did, but both looked a little shaken.

Two sets of shocked eyes met each other. They spoke together "We need to find the name of the homeless guy."

She said to the tech "You okay to finish up here?" The nod she received was hesitant, but genuine. "I want pictures of everything, make sure you get some good shots of that writing. If you need me, I'm on my cell." Quickly, she scribbled the number down on a sheet torn from her notebook, handing it over to the tech.

John was already waiting by the open door. He held his hand out for the car keys.

"You can drive?" she asked, surprised. Having never seen him drive, she had assumed that he couldn't. She hands him the keys without hesitation, and pulls out her cell phone. She can make some calls on the way. The first person she called was the beat cop who had found the body. A few minutes tense conversation gave her scant information.

No, he hadn't found a name, but he had noted that the man had a strange tattoo on his neck. It looked like a dragon, she was told. She thanked him and ended the call, wondering if it was worth calling the lab. She decided that it was worth a try. As always, the phone was answered on the first ring. The lab employed college students to man the phones twenty- four, seven.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Angela Dodson. I need to speak to Rosie." She asked.

"I'll go get her." The boy said, clunking the phone down on the desk. Rosie was the resident pathologist in charge of the lab, and she knew everything that took place in her domain.

"This is Rosie." No matter the hour, she always sounded remarkably cheerful and upbeat. Angela found it incredibly depressing.

Angela launched into an explanation of what she needed, without much hope.

"You're in luck- he had relatives that made contact." Angela could hear her flipping through a file. "His name was Jacob Catterfeld." Angela had heard the saying 'blood ran cold and now knew it to be true.

Her voice was shaky as she thanked Rosie and hung up the phone. John could sense that something is wrong and glanced at her. He was shocked by what he saw. She was shaking a little, eyes dark in a pale face. He felt a shiver of fear work it's way through him as he asked "What's wrong?"

For a moment, she couldn't speak. Forcing the words past numb lips, she said "The homeless man was called Jacob Catterfeld." Those same initials, belonging to three dead men could not be a coincidence. It was a warning or a mocking sign. Something was hunting John, but it was giving him notice.

"We need to know what the next set of words say." His voice was tight and rigidly controlled. Indicating, he pulled into a side road and turned the car around. She already knew his destination. They were going back to the crime scene.

The trip back seemed to take twice as long. She couldn't sit still in her seat, while he was as tense as a board. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She slid a hand over his, silently urging him to relax. He couldn't, instead choosing to use the fear to fuel his thoughts. The seed idea that he'd had earlier on was twisting in his mind, teasing him with it's presence, but not revealing itself.

The mistletoe and the other two words were all he had to go on, but something about the mistletoe was… _had _to be important for it to be left as a clue. Mistletoe… he turned the name over in his mind, rooting out facts about the weed. Before Christianity had commandeered it, the plant had been used to mark the Winter solstice for hundreds of years. The solstice was the beginning of Winter. 'Has begun'… the second clue suddenly fit into place.

"The Winter has begun…" He didn't realist that he was talking aloud. It was the start of an obscure line from an even more obscure book. He'd read it once in all years deporting half-breeds and had dismissed it then as nonsense. It came back to him easily, and in perfect detail. In a voice lacking strength, he repeated the phrase in full "The Winter has begun. By the End, you will know of me. And fear me. And I shall delight."

They had arrived back at the crime scene, and he left her, speechless in the car while he ran up the stairs to the apartment. The techs had left and the door was sealed with crime scene tape. He ripped it off the door and forced it open. As he expected, the body had been removed, but the clean-up crew hadn't been yet.

The words were still clearly legible on the pale blue walls. He read them, already knowing what they would say. The facts confirmed his idea, and with chilling clarity, he _understood _that he was the intended target.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

She enters the crime scene with a shiver of something she cannot name. It is a sister to dread, that deep primal emotion that reason cannot suppress. John is sitting on the only clean patch of carpet. His eyes look a little crazed and he is shaking slightly. His body was tense, muscles aching from being held so taut. After Chas' death, he was still doubting his abilities. His confidence was low. There had been no routine exorcisms for him to re-build it on. Now he knows why. The demon they're up against wouldn't allow something like a possession ruin it's plans. Suddenly, he longs for a stiff drink and a cigarette.

"What are we dealing with?" She asks him quietly.

He takes his time answering her, choosing his words carefully. Partly, he doesn't want to scare her. If she's running scared, she's more likely to run into trouble. Mostly, he needs to keep some semblance of control. "It's an old demon race, a strong one, called the Agvi." A pause, and he continues "They inhabit the lower reaches of hell, the part that only the most evil humans are banished too, murders, rapists, the like. They have immense power down there, but it fades up here. By all accounts, they're empaths, and they rejoice in their victim's pain as they kill."

"How do we kill them?" She asked, sitting next to him so that their hips and legs touch. He relaxed ever so slightly, letting a tiny amount to tension seep from his body. His hands rest on his legs, balled into loose fists. She longs to cover one with her own, but doesn't know how he'll react to the contact. Mentally sighing, she covered his left hand. To her surprise, he hangs on to her.

"Not them- it. The minions of the Agvi can't break through into our world. Only their… king can." Something in the way he says it gives her the chills. He's not sure that king is the right word to use. It gives the demon some kind of regal bearing, when it is anything but regal. He can think of a thousand words to describe the monstrosity, and non of them are adequate to make her understand. He _needs_ her to understand what is coming after him. If she does, she'll leave him and be safe. He wants her to be safe.

"No-one knows how to kill the king. It's never even been attempted." He can see the question forming in her eyes and knows before she does what it's going to be. "It always kills first." He says, clarifying what he meant.

"So what exactly are we up against, physically?" She asked, not sure that she really wanted to know.

He frowned, trying to remember the scraps he knew. "They're about eight feet tall. They're scaled, and the scales have razor sharp edges. They have large sharp claws." He reached the limit of his knowledge and stops talking.

He was scared. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but after seeing what had happened to those other men, it was a simple fact. He glanced around the room, suddenly taking in where he was. He felt sick and needed to get outside the apartment. Those pale blue walls seemed to be closing in on him. Standing, he raced for the door and bolted into the night. The door swung into the wall in his wake.

Like a startled deer, she scanned the room without moving. When she knew it was safe, she stood, automatically reaching to stop the door swinging into the wall. The noise was like a tap dancer on her frayed nerves. Stepping through the door, she closed it behind her, not bothering to replace the crime scene tape. As soon as you got close to the door, you could feel the malevolence of the act that had been committed inside. It was a far more effective deterrent than any amount of tape.

She finds him standing in the cool night air, facing the car his forearms braced on the cool roof. It's starting to rain, a heavy drizzle that resembled mist more closely than rain. His jacket is soaked, and droplets hung in that thick dark hair. She can't tell if the moisture on his face is rain or tears. Most likely, it's both. She laid a hand on the back of his neck, leaning closer to unlock the car door. He watched carefully as she walked around the front of the car and got in. She looked beautiful to him, just as she was with no make up and with her hair damp from the rain.

"So what now?" She asked, sliding the key into the ignition but not turning the key to start the engine.

"I think that this demon is going to keep killing until he's given us the whole sentence. We find out who lives in the city and has the same initials as I do." A heavy sigh punctuates his sentence "Then we pick one and hope it's the right one."

She twists the key, starting the engine "We should warn them."

"Why? Without my help, they don't stand a chance. Why panic people when it won't do any good?" A moment passed, and he said "Angela, I know it's not a good plan, but it's the best one I have." The way he says it makes it sound almost like an apology.

She glanced at him, taking her eyes off the road for a second. When she turned them back, all the colour drained out of her face. Her mouth stretched open in a wordless exclamation of absolute horror. John followed her eyes, and even after all that he had seen, the sight in front of him left him shaken. A huge horned head hung over the roof of the car. Blazing orange eyes, like embers on a nuclear fire, stared into the car. It was the stuff of nightmares. The tips of those monstrous claws hung inches below the top of the windshield.

Each one looked to be as thick as her wrist. The ends glowed, even in the erratic light thrown by the street lights. A ridged brow hung over those awful eyes. He couldn't see a mouth, but guessed it would be full of razor sharp teeth. The nose was like nothing he'd seen before. The separate nostrils had merged into one, deformed hole. It looked big enough for a man's fist to fit inside.

Instinct was screaming at both of them to do something, _anything, _but both are frozen in their seats by the terrifying sight. John can feel his breathing and heart rate speeding up, courtesy of adrenaline. Angela is already breathing much too fast. The fear that the demon inspired was awesome. Just being in the close proximity was enough to make him perspire.

Those damn claws disappeared from view and both knew what was coming. They duck as best they can inside of the car. A claw slammed through the roof, sliding through the bullet-proofing like a warm knife through butter. It came through in the middle of the car and John got the feeling that this was a warning, not an attack. The predator was marking it's territory or staking a claim.

An idea is brewing in the back of his mind. It's not original, but it's damned effective. He almost laughed at the simplicity of it.

"Brake!" He shouted. By reflex, she slammed both feet onto the brake pedal. The car skids a little on the slick street. The king of the Agvi is thrown from the roof. An unholy scream came from it as the claw in the car roof is torn free from it's hand. It skids along the road, throwing up sparks as the tough hide scraped the asphalt. It stands and snarls at them, not daunted by the fall. Green blood flows from the wound, pooling on the road. The blood steamed as it came into contact with the water.

The Agvi king runs towards the car, each step sending a shudder through the road. Angela scrambled to get the car into reverse. The gears stick and grind hopelessly as she struggled. With each second that passed, the Agvi king gains on them. With a wrench, she jams the gear home and floors the gas, sending the car shooting off down the road. She wasn't aware of it, but she was praying, words tumbling from her lips in a constant stream. John sits silently in the passenger seat, knowing that there's nothing he can do just yet.

It caught them, launching itself in a great leap that ended on the front of the car. The car is the one to give way, crumpling like a wet tissue under the impact, which doesn't phase the Agvi king. In fact, it seems pleased at the destruction. With a blinding flash, it disappeared, leaving them both stunned in the wreck of the car.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

Both sat stunned, in the wrecked shell of the car. The smell of fuel was strong in the air, and they could both taste it as they breathed. Scanning the empty street, both trying to see where the king had gone. After a through examination, they realised that it had disappeared. John let himself relax a tiny bit, slouching in the seat as he remembered to breathe. He felt shaky and weak. That little show had been solely for him, a display of what he was up against. It was an act meant to frighten him into hiding. It wouldn't work. He'd never been one to run from his fears, even as a child. He'd have been better of if he did run once in a while.

"What was it doing?" Angela asked, voice higher than normal. The brief glimpse of the demon had be terrifying. She couldn't imagine what it must feel like to know that it was hunting you. The fear would paralyse her. She wouldn't be able to think, to act, to live, with that threat hanging over her head. John seemed to be coping very well, acting like the threat didn't apply to him. It wasn't that he wasn't scared- she had seen his face during the attack and knew that he was, he just chose to ignore the emotion.

"Playing with us. It was feeding on our fear. That was fun for it." He sounded disgusted with himself at the reaction. He couldn't stop the wash of shame that he felt as he thought about it. The fear had been pure instinct, he knew, but it didn't quell the feeling that he should have done _more_ than he had. Telling himself it wouldn't have done any good didn't help, and he felt irritated with himself, at his perceived weakness. He scowled darkly, wanting to be out of the car as soon as he could.

He tried his door, pushing it, but it was jammed shut. It would never open again- the warped frame had distorted the door to such an extent that it was sealed forever. He leaned over her, and gave the driver's side door a hard shove. It moved about an inch, before jamming again. Frustrated, he hit it with everything he had. It swung open, hinges screeching at the abuse they had suffered. The noise made Angela grit her teeth- it was like a combination of nails on a chalkboard and a badly played violin.

Warm blood dripped on Angela's forearm, and she examined him to find a long gash above his elbow. It was bleeding sluggishly. That claw had done it's work, after all. He seemed not to notice that he'd been injured. She understood it completely. There was enough adrenaline racing through her body to stop a train. Her heart was still pounding. She laid a hand on his wrist, feeling his pulse racing under her fingertips. He was tense still- she could feel the tendons in his wrist flexing under her hand.

"You're hurt." She said, concerned. The human contact felt nice, and she was reluctant to take her hand away.

He swiped a hand over the wound, feeling it. "It's nothing." He said dismissively, wiping the blood on the car seat. She didn't agree, but chose not to say anything. There would be plenty of time later to fix the cut. Still, she pressed his shirt and jacket back over the wound, both covering it and putting something there to absorb some of the blood. It would be hell to get off, but she had a feeling that he wouldn't mind. He hissed a breath through his teeth as she doctored the cut, but didn't move, but didn't move until she was satisfied. A tiny smile played around the edges of his mouth, and she wondered what was so funny. He didn't tell her, but she got the impression her mothering him had amused him.

He sat back in his seat, letting her slide from the car first. She asked him for her bag and gun, both of which he handed her before escaping the wreck himself. She was surprised at how relieved she was to feel the weight of the gun in her shaking hands. He stood in the doorway, leaning over the roof to pull the claw out of the car. It was hard but he worked at it, smooth muscles bunching under his jacket as he twisted the claw. It moved suddenly, almost throwing him off balance, but he steadied himself before hopping down, claw in hand. She'd never realised just how strong he was before.

She stuck her head back into the car, coming up with a brown paper bag for him to slip the claw into. The bag was a little too small, and about an inch of claw stuck out. He hid the end up his sleeve. It wouldn't do for people to be asking questions about it. Neither of the would be able to answer them properly. He could feel the tip against the side of his wrist. It was surprisingly smooth, with a velvety covering that made him think of deer antlers. It was still slightly warm to the touch, and felt a little bit spongy. He flexed it slightly, amazed at the strength it took to achieve even that tiny movement.

"Where to?" She scanned the area, realizing that her apartment was closer "Mine's closer." She offered.

He hesitated for a split second before saying "I'd rather go to mine."

She agreed readily. It made sense- he had the materials they needed to research the demon. Agreeing on the quickest route, they started walking. After about ten minutes or so, she slowed. He slowed too, looking at her curiously "What's up?"

She was limping slightly, her ankle sore from the demon attack. "Want to get a taxi?" She asked, not thinking. Pain flashed across his face so quickly she was left wondering if she'd imagined it.

Memories of a different taxi were playing through his mind. All the times he'd sat in the back, watching Chas drive, listening to him complain about the world span through his mind. He would never see a taxi again without thinking of his friend. He knew in time that the pain he felt would pass, but it was still raw and open in the middle of his soul.

She understood his feelings perfectly and started walking again, murmuring "Maybe next time," with compassion.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. He could tell that she wanted to ask him something, but was waiting until they reached the privacy of the apartment first. The building had that hushed feeling that they only get when everyone is sleeping. Their shoes made enough noise on the wood floor to wake the dead, or so Angela felt. As soon as she could, she slipped hers off can continued in bare feet.

He pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door quietly. He felt bone weary. He ached all over and knew that nothing but a hot shower and good night's sleep would cure the ache. He entered the apartment first, scanning the room for trouble. Finding none, he pulled out a chair and slumped at the table. His elbows propped up on the table edge, he rubbed the back of his neck. He had a killer headache brewing.

Angela closed the door, making sure the lock clicked home. She laid her bag and gun on the table, kicking her shoes under it. There was a first aid box in the bathroom and she went to fetch it, bringing it back into the kitchen so that her supplies were at hand. She striped him of jacket and shirt, gently peeling the soaked cloth away from the wound. After filling a bowl with some clean warm water, she soaked a handful of cotton wool and cleaned the cut.

It wasn't as deep as she'd first thought, more of a deep graze than an actual cut. She poured a capful of antiseptic into more clean water and dabbed it onto his arm. He sucked air through his teeth, a mild way of telling her that it hurt. Once satisfied that it was clean, she wrapped his arm in gauze and wound a bandage over the top, fastening the ends with tape. It was a neat dressing and would last.

Her eyes were so heavy that she could barely keep them open, and she had to lean against John for several seconds before she found the strength to sit down. His face mirrored her own, exhaustion clearly defining the planes and angles of his cheeks and nose. The dark circles under both their eyes were so dark that they looked painted on. His eyes swam as he tried to focus on the table. There was no point in trying to do any research now. They were both far too tired to make any sense of the books. Decision made, he took hold of her hand, pulling her to her feet before leading the way to the bedroom.

The bed was neatly made, and had never looked so inviting. They collapsed across it, not bothering to get changed. He stayed awake long enough to kick off his shoes and pull the blankets over them, before he, too, slipped into an untroubled sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

John woke before Angela. He laid without moving for a few long moments, assessing the damage to his body. Surprisingly, he felt fine and tried to sit up. The lightening bolt of agony that raced down his arm from his shoulder told him that keeping still was probably his best option. A strained "Shit." forced it's way past his lips before he could stop it. A second, softer one followed as he flexed his fingers. The blood in his arm felt like acid, burning through the cells.

He laid back down gently, and tried to see his arm, but couldn't turn his head far enough to see. Nausea made his stomach churn and roll. He swore, knowing that if he tried to sit up again he would throw up. Cool fingers brushed against his arm, and he tensed, waiting for the pain. She didn't touch his arm at all, content to let her fingers rest on his wrist.

"John?" Angela asked, the question clear in her tone.

"My arm," He said tightly, lacking the strength to elaborate. Those reassuring fingers left his wrist, and he instantly missed them. He felt the bed dip as she sat up. Her fingers hovered over his arm, close but not touching. He was paler than she'd ever seen him before. Though he didn't know it, he had lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. She lowered her hand to touch the dressing, and decided against it, swinging her legs off the bed before disappearing into the kitchen.

She came back a minute later, carrying the first aid kit and a bottle of whiskey, complete with a glass. She set the first aid kit down, and poured a healthy measure of the amber liquid into the glass before holding it to his lips. He knew what she was doing, and drank the fiery liquid in a single gulp, coughing a little as it went down. He met her eyes without speaking, and she poured him another glass full. She inclined the empty glass, as if asking if he wanted another. He shook his head, once, declining the offer. Though he would love to drink himself to oblivion, there was work to do later.

The alcohol wasn't enough to get him drunk, but it was enough to dull the edges. Realising that she would have a problem unwrapping his arm, he gritted his teeth and rolled onto his side, feeling his stomach heave as he moved. He hated being unwell. It made him weak, and that was one thing he couldn't stand to be at any time. In his mind, being ill wasn't an excuse for being defenceless. He fought back the sickness, closing his eyes as the room span around him.

"Ready?" She asked him in a worried tone. Neither of them was looking forward to this. He nodded slightly, not opening his eyes. He felt incredibly tired. Part of his mind wondered at it, but he didn't have the energy to care.

She picked up the scissors and gently cut the bandage open. He didn't flinch as she lifted his arm to remove the wrap. The wound had bled through the gauze, sticking it to the raw surface. She felt him tense even more as she lifted the edge of the gauze, trying to get it off the cut without doing too much more damage.

It came free slowly, wrenching the occasional curse from him. He was mostly silent, letting her work without complaining. It was a good thing- she knew that it had to hurt, but a cry of pain would weaken her resolve to deal with the wound far too much. She wouldn't be able to do it. At last, the wound was uncovered, except for a few tiny spots of gauze stuck to the surface. She picked them off, not wanting to risk a worse infection. Next she wet some cotton wool and used it to clean the dried blood off his arm.

The surface of the cut didn't look too bad. It was angry and inflamed around the edges, but there was no pus coming from it. It just looked incredibly sore rather than badly infected. Something white caught her eye. _I picked all of the gauze off, didn__'t I? _She thought, rubbing her finger over it. It was hard and rough to touch. Grabbing some tweezers, she took hold of it and pulled. It moved a tiny bit, letting her see that it was a sliver of claw. It was sticking into the muscle of his arm, and she guessed that it was causing him the pain.

Taking a firmer hold on the sliver, she pulled again, trying to ignore his soft moan of pain. It was hard and she could feel her eyes filling with tears for him. Gripping the tweezers more firmly, she caught hold of the sliver again and pulled it straight up. It came out cleanly, followed by a gush of blood. She grabbed some gauze, using it to mop up the blood as she examined the wound.

There was two more identical splinters. She dealt with them in the same way, then checked for more. Finding none, she smoothed some antiseptic cream onto it, covering it well before layering more gauze on top. Another bandage finished it off and she taped the edges down well.

"Done?" His question was slightly slurred, and she didn't think it was from the whiskey.

"Yes. It doesn't look too bad." She said, tidying the wrappers and waste up.

"That wasn't too bad." He said dryly and she couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.

"Well, my mother did want me to be a nurse." She told him. "She didn't consider working for the police a proper job for a lady." Angela said it with some acid in her voice. She resented her parents for a lot of things, most of them relating to her choice of job. She hated them for their treatment of her sister. In fact, she blamed them for Isobel's death.

He struggled to sit up, and she helped him, keeping a steadying hand on his good shoulder. "What did you take out?" He asked and for a moment, she was startled until she remembered he must have felt the removal of the splinters. She picked up the bag she had put them in, giving it to him. He examined the bag, not liking the way they looked. Each splinter was about the length of his thumb and was about the same thickness as a piece of spaghetti. He shook one out, holding it up to his face to examine it more closely. It was still caked in his drying blood, which rubbed off on his fingers. He didn't seem to mind.

"Well?" She prompted him after a few minute's silence.

"I'm thinking." He said in the same dry way he had before.

He sat in silence for another minute before slipping the splinter back into the bag and standing. The clothes he was wearing were crumpled and blood stained. He itched to get out of them, but first he needed to check something out. She followed him through the apartment and into his tiny study. It was another room he didn't use often. It was a dark room, made darker by the books crammed into every available space. He took his time finding the one they needed.

It was a large old book, with a faded leather cover that had once been a rich dark blue. Dust lay thick on it, and John was forced to blow it off before he could open the book. He sat down at the small desk without thinking, and flipped to the back. Of course, there was no index in the actual book, but a long time before someone had been kind enough to add one. It was written on parchment in black ink that had become brown over time. Tracing a finger down the list, he located the page he needed quickly and turned to it.

A full page picture of the Agvi King stared out at them. It looked menacing, and he wished that he could slam the book and not look at it. Each ridge and scale was drawn in intricate detail by a caring hand. It repulsed him that someone could find the Agvi attractive enough to spend time drawing. In the bottom corner of the picture, there was a signature and as John read it, he realised that the drawing had been made by a woman.

Ignoring the picture, he turned his attention to the text. The line was written there and he skimmed it, making sure that he had remembered it correctly. He had and he moved on, looking for reference to the King's attacks. There was a scant paragraph at the bottom of the page, which he read one quickly. Startled, he read it again, making sure he understood it accurately. She'd seen his reaction on his face and leaned over him to read it. She brushed against his injured arm and he bit down on the cry of pain.

She traced her finger over the paper, reading the words aloud _" The Agvi - also known as Acolytes of Perdition- are known to be relentless in their pursuit of those they consider prey_. _They are spiteful creatures with a streak of torment inside of them. They enjoy playing with the victim, much as a cat would a mouse. Cunning and clever, they plan attacks in detail, unlike most other demons. They are to be feared, for they spell death to whoever shall cross their path. No known method can kill them. No-one has been known to survive an attack. The claws are fearsome things, as thick as a ladies__' wrist and as long as her forearm. They are the main weapon, and cause terrible wounds. The author believes that there may be a way to kill the Agvi, but it has never been tried." _

She turned the page, but there was no more information. Desolation was seeping into her soul. It seemed that John was doomed. He however, seemed pleased by the information and was already pulling out another book. She caught a glimpse of the title, but it was in Latin and she couldn't understand it. The book was well worn, and he obviously used it often because he turned to the page he needed straight away. He read a few pages, turning back as if to double check his facts. A smile began to spread as things became clear to him

"I know how to kill it." He said with a smirk.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

She was confused, to say the least. It seemed a big jump to make with only scant evidence from a few old books. The scepticism must have shown on her face, because he turned the book around and showed her the page he had been reading. Runes were drawn around the edges of the page. There was something that looked like dried blood splattered on a corner. She skimmed the page, finding the old handwriting hard to understand.

As she read the page, she could understand why he was so pleased. The method seemed simple enough, if dangerous. They share a look before he stood to gather the things he needed. Angela cannot name half of them, let alone fathom what they do, but she clears space for him at the desk. He stands by the chair, tilting his head, asking without speaking if she wants it.

She shook her head, instead choosing to get a chair from the kitchen and sit by the other side of the desk. It puts her slightly higher than him, but he doesn't seem to mind. Her eyes roamed across the items she can name, and she wondered if this will turn into a suicide mission for him. She had a bad feeling, one that she can tell he was starting to share.

He doesn't let it put him off mixing the ingredients for the liquid. Looking up, his eyes are so dark she can see herself reflected there. It's only a trick of the light, but for a moment she was mesmerised. Blinking, she looks away, feeling a blush start to spread up her neck into her face. He chooses to ignore it, asking "Can you get me the claw?"

"Sure." She says, leaving the room. The claw lay forgotten on the floor in the bedroom, where it had been dropped the night before. Both of them had been too exhausted to care where it ended up. She bent and picked it up, keeping a layer of paper between it and her skin. It won't hurt her, according to the book, but she's not wiling to take the chance. She turned and went back to the study.

She was just in time to see John raise the sharp silver knife. "NO!" The word tore from her without thought, but the knife blade was still moving across his skin. Absently, she noted that the handle had been tooled and worked into in intricate design. His hand covered most of it, but she could see a few gem stones sparkling in the light.

She never saw the small silver chalice he had placed under his hand to catch the blood, nor the stack of tissues next to him to wrap his finger in. The potion called for blood, and it had to be his. The cut burned as he let it drip. Without taking his eyes off the chalice, he said dryly "You thought I was killing myself again?"

"I… I'm sorry."

A tight smile flashed across his face. "Twice was enough, thank you."

She closed her eyes as she waited for the embarrassment to pass. Opening them, she sat back down, laying the claw onto the table. "What are you doing?"

"I have to anoint the claw in blood." With his other hand, he picked up a few herbs and passed them to her. "Can you pick the leaves off those?"

She recognised a few of them, but not all. They smelt wonderful, and the fragrance only became stronger as she created a pile of leaves in the middle of the table. She laid the bare stalks next to the pile. Her fingers were green and she could still smell Mint and Angelica on her hands.

Satisfied with the amount of blood in the small silver bowl, he grabbed a few tissues and wrapped them tightly around the cut. Without a word, she went to the kitchen and grabbed a plaster from the first aid box. He took it with a smile of thanks and stuck it over the cut. She sat down, watching as he pulled a pestle and mortar from under the table and started grinding the leaves into a paste. It didn't take long before the leaves resembled a thick green paste. He carefully added it to the chalice of blood, mixing it with a tiny silver spoon.

"Can you pass the dried herbs behind you?" He asked. She turned to the shelf and picked the box up. It was surprisingly heavy, and covered in dust.

She passed it to him. He set it on the floor, and opened the lid. The box was crammed with every herb known to man- and a few that weren't. He took out the ones he wanted, before slipping the lid back onto the box.

"They keep longer in the dark." He explained. Each packet was labelled and she read them as he opened them. He saw what she was doing and started to tell her a little about the herbs. It was about time she leant- the knowledge would be useful to her in the future. He suddenly realised that he had so much to teach her, and felt a little worried by the responsibility it bestowed on him.

"Asafoetida powder, used in exorcisms. It's normally burnt, not used in a liquid." He used another tiny sliver spoon to remove a small amount of the light coloured powder, before sealing the bag back up. The powder was pungent, and she could smell it in the air long after he had mixed it into the blood.

He picked up another bag "Betony, as used by the Druids." He used a bigger pinch this time. She could see faint traces of purple in the dried powder and guessed that the herb had flowers. It didn't smell very strong to her, but that could have been because the scent of the mint on her hands was still strong.

"Dragon's Blood, used to increase the potency of the potion." This time, he only used a tiny sprinkle of the dark red powder. It floated on the top of his blood for a second before sinking.

The second last bag was almost empty. He held it up, considering, before opening it. "Myrrh Powder. Shoulda got some more of this. It restrains evil influences and breaks curses." The powder was a rich yellow colour, and it smelt very strongly. He added a small pinch and stirred the blood mixture. She fought an urge to sneeze, worried it would cause problems.

He picked up the last bag. "Solomon's seal. Destroys evil sprits and intensifies the powers of everything else in here." He picked up the spoon again, and added a spoonful of the herb. She expected something to happen, but nothing did. He stirred the mixture, making sure that the ingredients were evenly mixed. A few lumps stuck to the sides and he patiently mashed them into the mixture with the back of the spoon.

"Is that everything?" She asked, curious.

"That's all the herbs we need to add." He checked the book again, even though he knew what he needed to do next. He picked up the claw, suppressing a shudder as he held it, and tipped it out of the bag. He dipped his fingers into the potion, hating the way his blood was still slightly warm, and started to spread it over the claw. His lips moved as he covered the claw, but his voice was too low for her to understand what he was saying. The concentration on his face was stunning. Whatever he was saying, it was taking a lot out of him.

Once the claw was fully covered, he picked up a small brown bottle. It wasn't labelled, and she didn't want to break his concentration by asking what it was. John opened it, counting drops into what was left of the potion. He didn't pour any of the oil onto the claw. From the smell, she would say it was Sandalwood oil.

Suddenly, she felt something building inside of her. She squeezed her eyes closed, gasping for breath as she fought down the panic. The feeling was dread, pure and simple. "It's coming." She announced, though surely he could feel it too. The air felt a little cooler than it had mere seconds ago. Each shadow seemed to have a malevolence that only evil could have.

Feeling a need to move, she stood, pacing as best she could inside of the small room. He watched her without speaking, finishing the spell by dabbing the potion onto both of his hands. Only when it was finished did he go to her, taking hold of both of her arms, just above her elbows. She was tense, muscles taught as she waited for the enemy to appear. He kissed the back of her neck, willing the tension out of her body.

Reaching over, he picked the claw up and led her into the kitchen. She was shocked by how calm he seemed, until she good a good look at his face. He was white. Looking into his eyes, she sensed that he was as scared as she was. He was just hiding it better. There was a battle readiness about him, in the way that he stood and in the way he moved. His normal lithe grace was still there, just tempered with something akin to desperation. He hadn't asked for this fight, but he couldn't wait until it was behind him.

Outside the kitchen window, the clouds have begun to draw closer and lower. It is a sky made out of molten metal and a feeling of menace quickly falls over the area. He stands by the window, watching the people below trying to make it inside before the storm hit. No matter how advanced the human race became, that basic survival instinct would forever be the same.

The sky split, disgorging lightening, spitting rain. It hammered at the window, begging to be in, but the glass held up against the liquid onslaught as it has so many times before. A thunder clap sounded directly overhead, and Angela fought the urge to curl up into a ball and put her hands over her ears. She was really scared now, dread seeping into every cell of her body. Something _bad _was going to happen and it was going to happen very soon.

Another crack of thunder sounded, this one seeming much closer than the last. She screamed, she couldn't help it. Her body needed the release it provided. His hand found hers, giving her strength as she stood beside him. A blinding flash lit the air in the apartment, forcing both of them to close their eyes. When they opened them, the Agvi king stood in front of them in his full glory. Angela looked away- she couldn't help herself. There was something about that thing that made her want to run screaming.

It opened it's mouth and started to speak. She froze, hand tight enough around his to leave bruises for days after. In that moment, she forgot how to breathe. John was no less terrified than her. To see the face of his death was something he had never imagined would happen. Now, standing only three or four feet away from the demon which had sought him out to destroy, he had to call up every last ounce of courage he had not to run away.

"I've come for you John. I'll finish what Satan could not." It vowed in a voice so deep she felt it in her teeth. She felt John flinch slightly, and something passed from man to woman. He thought that he was going to die. She accepted it with a grace she didn't want to have.

What happened next chilled her more. John smiled, and said flippantly "Lots have said that." He paused "None have won. I doubt you'll be the first."

Soon, Angela would learn that when two giants clash, it didn't matter which one was left standing. Both would be damaged.

But only one would be dead.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven 

The familiar weight and pressure of her gun was suddenly gone as he yanked it from her paddle holster. He snicked the safety off and fired point-blank into the King's face. It fell back, those monstrous hands going to cover the wound. The bullet lodged in that stony face. Snarling, it raked those claws at him, each one tearing a deep wound across his injured arm. He took the gun into his other hand, and fired again. Droplets of his blood covered half of the kitchen, and though the adrenaline masked the pain, he knew that he should be in agony. He counted his blessings, grateful that he couldn't feel the hurt.

Angela reached for him, fear and concern clear on her face. She leaned into him, trying to offer what little protection she could. "Run!" He screamed, and shocked into blind obedience, she obeyed. Before she passed through the door, she glanced at him for a split second, eyes wide and wary. The look on her face kept her going. This was his fight and he wasn't going to drag her into it, no matter the cost to him. "Stay in the hallway!" His voice was sharp, purposefully so.

The last sound she heard is the gun firing over and over. _1, 2, 3, 5, 6... _she counted down to the moment the gun will be useless. The gun held 15 rounds, but they wouldn't last long at the rate he was firing. She stopped at the end of the hallway as the shots ended. The silence pressed down on her worse than the gunfire had. _What had happened to stop him shooting? Had the gun jammed? _Those and a million other questions raced through her mind.

She had a back up gun in a holster on her ankle. It was as powerful as her main gun- if she ever needed the back up, she wanted it to work. She reached for it, fingers slick with perspiration again the cool metal. It snagged a little on the leather as she pulled it out, but came free eventually. Her legs felt shaky and weak. Not trusting them to support her, she crawled on her hands and knees to peer around the door. There was nothing to see, and part of her was relieved. Another, bigger her was too scared to enter. She huddled by the door, cradling the gun and sobbing with fear. She wanted desperately to help John, but she was just too scared to re-enter the apartment. His words still rang in her ears and she knew that he had no choice.

Inside of the apartment, he had taken off into a sprint away from the Agvi. He needed a little space for the spell to work. As he ran, he muttered the first words to the spell. The bathroom door was closest to him, and he skidded to a halt inside of it. Like every door in his apartment, the bathroom one was made of heavy wood. Bolts sat top and bottom of the door, but he didn't bother with them. They were no use against a adversary who could teleport. Still, he kicked the door closed, more to hide him that to stop the Agvi. He dropped the gun, not caring where it went and gripped the claw in both hands, blood to blood, saying the spell out loud as quickly as he could. The words tripped and tumbled from his lips, chasing each other into the world.

Thunder and lightening outside lent the fight a surreal quality. The power failed suddenly, leaving him with only the daylight to see by. It was enough. It had to be- there was no time to light candles. Rain hammed with shocking intensity against the glass. The elements themselves were angry. John didn't wish to know who with. He turned his back to the window, so that he face was hidden in shadow. Only his eyes stood out, glowing with a fierce anger, fuelled by hatred. He looked like the first man and the last to inhabit the earth. In that moment, he was eternity.

Luck was on his side and he managed to get through the spell without the Agvi interrupting it. The apartment walls shook as the king ran along the hallway. He finished the spell just as the door burst open, slamming into the wall so hard it splintered in it's frame. The bang mimicked the thunder with such precision that John expected the storm to move inside. His hands glowed white where they touched the claw, and a sensation akin to burning started to spread up his arms. He let go of the claw, so it was only held in his left hand and tried to dodge a swipe of the Agvi's claws. He wasn't quite quick enough and they tore through his skin on his chest and stomach.

He gasped and his hand spasmed around the claw, fingers clenching and un-clenching as he fought wave after wave of incredible pain. He came very close to dropping the claw, which would have broken the spell. If the blood on his palm hadn't been so tacky still, he probably would have. Blackness clouded the edge of his eyes, and he staggered a little. He was on the edge of passing out and both of them knew it. The Agvi smiled a chilling little smile. It pissed John off, which gave him the strength to keep fighting. He gritted his teeth and ran towards the king. This was going to be a once chance only deal. If it didn't work, he would be dead. He had no doubt about that.

He lost count of the number of times the Agvi's claws tore at his body, but the blood ran thick and fast. He slipped in it as he moved. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he worked the gold knuckle dusters onto his hand and swung a punch at the Agvi's face. It was like hitting a brick wall, and his hand ached from the collision. A tear had opened along the demon's cheekbone, and John felt a rush of grim satisfaction. Green blood oozed thickly out of it, and dropped, hissing to the floor. It burned holes in the white tiles, leaving them looking like someone had stubbed cigarettes out on them. He grimaced at the irony even as his life flowed from him.

He raised the claw and with the last of his strength, drove it into the throat of the Agvi. It froze, then drove those claws straight into his body, yanking them back to do the most damage. John whispered the final line of the spell, hoping desperately that it would work. He twisted the claw home, somehow managing to mutter his trademark motto "This is Constantine. John Constantine. Asshole."

The demon hissed, recognising those words for what they were. A curse. John might be dead, but he was still John Constantine. He hadn't lost a fight yet. The apartment was filled with an eerie blue light. It drew back on itself, extinguishing with a ear piecing crack. The only evidence of the demon was a huge scorch mark on the tiles. A stench still hung in the room. He sniffed and wished he hadn't. It was the scent that only hell produced. He still held part of the claw in his hand and he flung it away from himself with a grunt of disgust. It clattered off the far wall and landed on the floor by his bath tub.

His body, having taken so much suddenly gave up the fight. He slumped first to his knees, then to the floor as pain and shock kicked in. He wanted to be sick, but didn't have the energy to give for that release. The tiles are cold on his back and he starts to shiver. The pain in his chest was worsening now, though he wouldn't complain. He'd survived the attack he'd been so sure would kill him. His blood started to dry on his clothes. Fabric made stiff with his own caked blood rubbed against him as he moved a little, coughing. The darkness at the edges of his vision was blacker now and he gave himself over to it.

In the hallway, Angela was listening. She had heard the crack, but didn't know what it meant. Peeling herself off the floor, she stood on unsteady legs and crept into the apartment. A heavy smell hung in the air, and she coughed harshly. The air was dry and felt gritty in her mouth.

"John!" She shouted his name but received no reply. She is drawn to the bathroom and finds him there. At first, she thought he was dead, but a painful breath drew her attention. Her heart leapt at that sound. She hadn't lost him yet. She skidded on her knees to his side, hands sliding on the tiles. The gun in her hand drops to the floor and it slid across the tiles to rest near his leg. She didn't notice or didn't care. Every part of her attention was taken by his broken body.

She was reluctant to touch him, in case she caused him more pain. The wounds on his stomach, chest and arms are bleeding far too much for her liking. She thought that she could see bone in more than one of them. His eyes were desperate, a strange mix of fear and pain that she hoped never to see again. His face was pale and covered in an unhealthy sheen of perspiration. He was starting to go into shock. Her first aid training kicks in and she grabs the nearest thing- his suit jacket to cover his lower body with. A towel comes with it and she presses it onto the wounds. He gasped and squeezed his eyes closed. "I'm sorry." she whispered over and over, as if it could stop the hurt.

Gently, she laid one hand on his forehead, only taking it away to grope in her pocket for her cell phone. She sobbed, tears running down her face to mix with his. After what seems like an eternity, her fingers close round it and she yanked it out. She dialled 911 and gave the required information, trying to be professional, but her voice kept breaking. She laid the phone on the floor next to her, not caring that it's in his blood.

A sudden thought strikes her. "The demon?" she asked, fearfully.

He tries to speak, but fails, instead he flicks his eyes towards a large scorch mark on the tile floor.

She understands right away. "Deported."

He managed a tiny nod. She felt it rather than saw it, but smiled to acknowledge it. "You did good, John. Real good." She said, hoping to comfort him. Those beautiful haunted eyes drifted closed again as he passed out.

Letting go of the soaked towel, she took off her jacket and crumpled it into a ball, lifting his head to slide it underneath. She couldn't bare the thought of the cold tiles against his head. She took hold of his hand again, irrational fear making her think he'd die if she didn't keep hold of him. Sudden noise and activity in the hallway grabbed her attention. "In here!" She shouted, hoping that it was the paramedics.

A gruff male voice answered her shout "Where are you?" He sounded like he was in the apartment. Heavy steps made their way towards her and John.

"The bathroom." She yelled back, voice breaking again with relief. Help was here. Everything would be alright now.

Two men dressed in bright yellow and green enter the room. The room suddenly becomes too small. Knowing that help is here and that she's only in the way, she kissed him and backs against the wall, watching the paramedics as the work. They're talking to each other, but she can't make out what they're saying. From the tone of their voices, it didn't sound good.

Within ten minutes of arriving, they had John on a stretcher and were taking him out of the apartment. An oxygen mask covered the bottom half of his face and under the blankets, she could see his chest moving. That tiny movement was more important to her than anything else. One of the wheels squeaked, and she winced at the sound. She saw his face one last time before they left her standing forlorn in the doorway. He was unconscious and so pale his lips were bloodless.

For the longest time, all she could do was sit on the floor in the doorway and cry tears of an emotion she couldn't name.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight

The white hallway was so starkly lit that it was giving her a headache. She leant back in the uncomfortable plastic seat, resting the top of her head against the wall and screwed her eyes closed. It gave her a measure of relief. A few minutes passed before she sensed someone standing in front of her. Startled, she sits up so quickly that the seat nearly slid from under her. The doctor who was treating John waited patiently while Angela collected herself.

A long day had passed while she waited for news. Angela can tell from the look on the Doctor's face that she had brought bad news. Angela's mouth was so dry she could hardly talk. "Is he dead?" She asked, biting her lip to keep the tears at bay. Doctor Morris sits next to her, and laid a gentle hand on Angela's shoulder.

"Is he dead?" Angela repeated in a mere whisper.

"I'm afraid it's bad news." Perhaps sensing that Angela needed straight talk, she simply said "John is paralysed from his waist down. He'll never walk again."

The tears Angela had been holding back force their way through and she sobbed quietly. "There's no chance of it healing?" She asked, looking for some kind of hope for him. She knew that it was the worst thing that could happen to him, aside for death. "Does he know?" She asked softly, clasping her hands together as if in prayer.

Doctor Morris shook her head "No, he's still unconscious." Anticipating Angela's alarm, she quickly added "It's not surprising, with the amount of blood he lost. He's stable and should make a good recovery." She didn't tell Angela just how many times they had nearly lost him on the operating table.

"Will he need special care?" Angela asked, wincing a little at the word 'special'. It felt wrong to talk about John like that. He'd never asked for help from anyone and now it looked like he'd be forced to accept it.

"There are a number of options that he could consider" The Doctor was choosing her words carefully. "He could go back to his own home and manage fine by himself. Of course, that might not suit him. It depends on his attitude."

Angela shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat, guilt eating at her. _How could fate be so cruel to a man who had given so much? _She thought, angry and ashamed that she hadn't done more to help him. _If I__'d have gone in, he might be okay. _She blamed herself, and always would. Guilt was a tricky little creature- once it got inside of you, it was impossible to get rid of. Another wave of tears flowed down Angela's cheeks. The Doctor's beeper went and she looked at it, face registering her alarm.

"I'm sorry, I've go to get this." The Doctor said, patting Angela's hand as she stood up.

Angela said "Is it John?" but her question went unanswered as the Doctor hurried away.

She paced in the hallway, every few steps looking at the ugly brown clock that hung opposite the window. The minutes dragged by slowly. The shirt she wore was stained with his blood- she hadn't thought to change before rushing to the hospital. She looked at her hands. The blood on them was starting to dry and flake off. She wished that there were some way that she could give it all back to him.

She sighed and realized how dry her mouth felt. From her pocket, she pulled out a handful of change and walked down the white hall towards the coffee and soda machines. She got a cup of black coffee and walked back up the hallway. After a few sips of the coffee, Angela felt worse than she had before. She dumped the coffee into a rubbish bin, gagging a little as the sour taste lingered in her mouth.

Making a decision, she walked towards the bathroom, determined to clean herself up. The blood came off her hands surprisingly easily, washing down the drain as she pulled the plug out of the sink. She scrubbed her hands again, still feeling his blood on them. There wasn't much she could do with her shirt, and she stripped it off, buttoning the jean jacket she was carrying in it's place. She hesitated for a second before throwing the shirt in the bin. She never wanted to see it again, let alone wear it. She had avoided looking in the mirror, but did so now, shocked at how weary she looked. She had been aged by circumstance, not time.

Walking back to the seat she had sat on earlier, she wondered how to tell John that he'd never walk again. It would be hard, but she figured the best way to do it would be just to tell him. The though brought fresh tears to her eyes, and she swiped angrily at them. The time for tears had passed. Seeing a nurse in the hallway, Angela asked the young woman "John Constantine?"

"Room 157, on the right." The young nurse said, pointing. The green scrubs she was wearing made a rustling sound as she moved her arm. Angela froze, disconcerted. For a fraction of a second, she thought that she had seen the outline of wings on the girl's back. When she looked again, they'd gone and Angela put it down to stress.

"Thank you." Angela said, gathering herself as she walked to the right door. She paused outside, trying to look through the window, but the shade had been drawn over the glass, to provide privacy. She opened the door slowly, stepping through it before closing it softly behind her. The room was cool and dim, as tranquil as it could be with medical equipment chirping softly in time with his heartbeat.

John looked lost in the huge bed. Tubes and wires ran all over his body, looking like some kind of animal had invaded him. She sat down heavily on the chair by his bed, taking hold of his hand gently. There was an IV line in it, needle covered with a inch of flesh coloured tape. He didn't react to her touch and she was forced to blink away tears. His knuckles were split and bruised and she kissed each in turn. She kept hold of his hand, counting each breath he took. The rhythm was soothing and soon, she found herself drifting off to sleep with her head on the bed by his chest.

She didn't know how long passed, when a clumsy but tender hand on her head woke her. She lifted her head. "J…John?" She asked, trying to clear the cobwebs from her brain. As scary as it had been to see him after the demon attack, seeing him in a hospital bed was somehow worse. It made everything so much more real.

"Angela?" His voice was croaky and weak. It was so unlike him to let her see him defenceless.

"I'm here." She assured him, squeezing his hand gently.

"Are you okay?" He asked, real concern showing through in his voice.

She smiled a tear filled smile. "I'm fine."

He struggled to life his head. "What aren't you telling me?"

"John.." She started to speak, stopping because her throat was so tight she couldn't force the words out. She cleared her throat and tried again "The attack… it caused a lot of damage…" She broke down again, blurting the words out before she could stop herself. "You're paralysed from the waist down." He could read the guilt so clearly on her face it became his own.

He felt like all of the air had been sucked from the room. He couldn't breathe, and if it hadn't been for the rapid beep of the machines, he would've swore that he was in hell. His first instinct is to deny it, as if by denying the words he can deny the injury. He couldn't though- the numbness in his body is too strong to just be the meds he'd been pumped full off. His mind is suddenly as numb as his body. He couldn't accept her words, but there is no denying the evidence. Tiny pieces of sensation are like jewels to him; each one rich and different. He clung to her hand like a drowning man and she pulled him to the surface.

Embrace pain long enough and you'll become numb to it, John had just found out. When he'd looked to the future, he'd never imagined that he'd be spending half his life as a cripple. He'd always thought that he'd go out in a blaze of glory. Little did he know that he very nearly had. He knew that Angela thought he laid blame at her door. He couldn't figure out why. He blamed her for nothing.

"John?" She asked, sounding so uncertain that he hated being the cause of that uncertainty.

"I'm thinking." He said, earning a ghost of a smile. It wasn't true. His mind was still trying to accept the fact that he'd never walk again. "I can't stay here." The half breeds in the city would relish the chance to kill him if they heard he was vulnerable.

Her confusion came to quickly to hide. "In the hospital?"

"In the city." He explained. "It's not safe." It had never been safe, especially with the circles he travelled in.

"I'll come with you." She offered, hating that she sounded like she was begging.

"You can't." His voice was soft, and that made it all the harder. Both of them were crying, his tears strangely cold on his face. Hers were warm and fell quickly. She sniffed, blotting her nose on her cuff.

"When?" She'd never thought that one little word could cause her so much hurt, but it cut deeply as she whispered it.

"Tonight." His voice was even enough, but pain was simmering under it. "It has to be tonight." He said it more to himself that to her, but she caught the low words anyway.

"So soon?" She asked, voice breaking. She had only just got him back and now she was going to lose him all over again. It was too much to take. "Where will you go?"

A twisted smile appeared on his face "I know a place." It had been his childhood hideout when his family went on vacation to their cabin. The details are in my apartment. There's a red box in the dresser." She nodded, understanding the unasked question. It didn't mean that she liked it.

Their wet eyes met and held each other's gaze steadily. "Angela. I'm sorry." It wasn't what he meant, and both knew it. The three little words that he wanted- needed- to say wouldn't pass his lips and he couldn't force them. She understood, and closed her eyes while tears flooded her face. Standing, she kissed him deeply. He took all she could give and gave it back. Passion and pain made desperate bed fellows, and both hurt equally.

Careful not to hurt him, she slid onto the bed next to him, getting as close as she could. Hands met and gripped each other. Neither one of the wished to break the contact. Both were overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through their bodies. Both were scared by how intense the emotions were. When you're not used to feeling, the smallest emotion can be hard to bear. He fell asleep before she did, hand relaxing against hers. She didn't let go until she was sure he was deeply asleep.

It took her less than half an hour to do what he'd asked. The lady on the other end of the phone knew John and spoke warmly about him. Angela felt like she'd been punched in the gut. Her life would be so empty without John. She'd grown to depend on him by her side. She felt selfish for wanting him to stay. She was angry at him for not letting her go with him. She couldn't understand his reasons, but would abide by them because he'd asked her to.

He was still sleeping when she returned to the hospital room. She kissed him again, before curling up next to him on the bed, her hand resting softly on his shoulder. She never planned to fall asleep, but fate wasn't on her side. She fell into a deep and dreamless sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

When she woke, the bed next to her was empty save for a letter. He was gone and she didn't have the strength to follow.

--Fins--

A/N

Thank you everyone for reading this. Your support is the reason I've kept writing. I know that you're all hating my guts right now, but fear not dear readers. There is more on the way.


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